Dreams Of Contentment
by nicnac918
Summary: And even if, in the end, they never got their share of happiness, they might, at least, be content. Post-series oneshot.


"Are you happy the way you are now?" he asks, thinking that if he can't have the one thing in the world he wants, then he's owed this much at the least.

"Yes," she replies, without even a second's pause to think about her answer. It's a lie he needs to hear maybe, but it's not one he wants to hear and he wonders if the words taste as false on her lips as they ring in his ears. But thinking about the taste of her lips makes him think of other things, things he's supposed to forget about. He asks another question to distract himself.

"Can ducks even be happy?" And that's the real question, the one he should have asked in the first place. Because he knows, with that particular type of certainty that absolutely can't be doubted, because there simply isn't room for doubt to take root, that if she _can_ be happy then she _will_ be, someday.

She pouts a little, as if upset that he's spoiled her little lie, before turning her gaze back out over the lake and answering. "No they can't really, not in the way people think about happiness. Most ducks are more," and here she pauses for a moment, even her legs arresting their motion, as if the back and forth kicking might interrupt her thoughts, "… content, I think. They know exactly who they are and what they want and their biggest worry is whether they want to eat or nap right then. Life is easy, when you're a duck."

"_Most_ ducks are content?" She turns towards him when he asks that and looks like she's considering pouting again, for not letting anything slide, but seems to decide it wouldn't be worth the effort.

"I'm more duck than anything else at this point, you know. But that doesn't mean I don't ever remember being human, or ever have any human-like thoughts. So even if I'm more duck, there's still not enough duck in me to find peace the same way they do."

"I'm sorry," he says and she doesn't respond except to cock her head to the side a bit, in a listening sort of way. They both know why he's apologizing, but she understands his need to say it out loud, and so doesn't say anything. "I'm sorry I can't write you human again, it's just…"

"We made a promise?" she suggests gently.

"No, that's not it. After all, a promise is just words." She laughs a little and he glares at her.

"Sorry, it's just, after everything that happened, you can still call them _just_ words. It makes me happy, a little bit."

He tries not to get angry, and ends up exasperated instead. "Well that's all they are, without ink and paper to make them dangerous. I've learned to be wary of words, but not to respect them."

She laughs again, and he finds himself increasingly irritated that she won't take this seriously. But somewhere on the other side of his irritation he's rejoicing for any small measure of happiness he can bring her.

"Have you told that to Autor yet?" she asks, still chuckling at the image that conjures.

Suddenly his battle with anger is a losing one and he snaps at her. "I can't tell Autor, he's forgotten what happened. They've all forgotten. I told you that already."

She shakes her head a little, as if trying to knock the memory loose. "You did, didn't you? Sorry. I can't always remember everything anymore. It's better here, but still hard sometimes."

It's amazing how fast the anger can drain out of him. "Never mind, it's not your fault. Sorry."

She smiles. "I think that's enough apologies, don't you?" He nods, not because he really believes he has said sorry enough, but because he doesn't know if it could ever be enough, and there is too little time left to pass to waste it all on apologies and guilt.

"So why can't you write a story then?" He's not sure if she's asking because she needs to hear the answer or because he needs to tell it, but either way he's grateful for the opportunity to explain.

"Stories are harder to write than you might think they are. I told you that before," he says, but this time there is no accusation in it, only a gentle reminder. "You can't just know who and what, why and how are important too. And in reality there aren't any how's to turn a duck into a human, no fairy godmothers or magical pendants. The only way you could become human again is if I turned the town into a story, the way _he_ did. I can't do that; meddle with people's lives like they're worthless."

"I wouldn't want you to." And she smiles at him, but it's so full of despair and sorrow he thinks for a minute that she's about to break. "I'll manage somehow, I always do."

He wants to scream, to rage that it isn't fair that she should end up with nothing. She defied her fate as Princess Tutu and accepted her fate as a duck, so where is her share of glory and happiness? But it won't do any good if he does, so he doesn't. Instead he lies back on the dock and closes his eyes, drinking in the sun and silence.

It's not completely silent of course. Ambient sounds drift through the air, the gentle trill of songbirds overhead, the low croaking of frogs in the brush, the soft rustling of leaves in the wind. But there is no quacking of ducks from the lake, nor murmur of voices from the town. It's only the two of them here in this place, and that lends itself to a certain kind of silence.

Eventually her voice breaks the still. "I don't mind you know."

He doesn't bother to open his eyes. "Don't mind what?"

"That you pretend. It's not even all pretend, since it's a bit true too. I'm a duck forever now, so the girl me really is dead, in a way."

He's rigid as a board, sitting up and his hands clenched together in his lap, with no memory of how he got that way, as he listens to her blithely reveal the one secret he tried to keep from her, the only thing he didn't want her to know. "I'm sorry," he whispers and he knows there are other things he should say, but he can't think of them.

Suddenly her hand is resting on top of his. "I told you it was okay. Besides, no more apologies, remember?"

"There's a grace in death," he says, desperate to give her any kind of explanation. "You deserve grace."

Her hand somehow manages to worm inside the clenched fist to hold his. "You shouldn't lie to yourself like that. It's okay if you're scared." Her voice is a gentle sort of chastisement, that won't push him to tell more if he doesn't want to. And he's grateful for that, because he can't quite bring himself to tell her that it's easier to stop himself from bringing a dead person back to life than it is to stop from turning a duck into a human.

They sit in silence for a while longer, hand-in-hand, until she breaks it once again. "I wanted to thank you before I go. For everything you did for me, and for staying beside me even after I went back to being a duck. And if… if it ever gets too hard to stay with me, you don't have to anymore. I'd understand." He's sure she's going to start crying any second now and is desperate for anything to keep that from happening.

"Does it make you happy when I come to see you?" And that, more than anything else he's said, feels like his soul laid bare before her. She gives him a watery smile and lies a yes once again. But this time he accepts it, not because he needs it, but because he can hear the truth in it too. And if he can give her something like happiness, then he owes her that much.

"I have to leave now. I'll be waking up any second." She leans in and gives him a kiss on the cheek, right near the corner of his mouth. "If you ever need to see me again, all you have to do is write another story." And then she was gone.

He lies back again and rests his hand on his cheek, waiting to wake. And if he's not quite happy, he is, at least, content.


End file.
